


amor ordinem nescit

by westminster



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Blow Jobs, First Kiss, Insecurity, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, mild glasses kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-21
Updated: 2018-07-21
Packaged: 2019-06-14 02:45:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,282
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15378996
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/westminster/pseuds/westminster
Summary: Harry temporarily looses the ability to breathe when he sees his manager. Because yes, it's Gareth, in the same matching sweatpants and jacket as normal, and then again it's not. It's not because Gareth has adopted these wonderful glasses, that rest perfectly on his nose, frame his face and put emphasis on his godly complexion. Harry has to pinch himself - why has he never noticed how utterly gorgeous this man looks before?





	amor ordinem nescit

**Author's Note:**

> the title means 'love does not know order' in latin  
> -  
> I had certainly not anticipated the amount of love my last southgate/kane fanfiction got, so here's another, longer one! I hope you like it, comments & kudos are greatly appreciated!

He stares at himself in the mirror, trying to force in his contact lenses. 

_Ow- Ouch- Ah - Ow!_

Gareth’s eyes are reddening at the sides as he finally succumbs to the lenses and places them on the cabinet. Heavily, he sighs because he knows exactly what this means. This mild conjunctivitis that his doctor said would be totally painless, but is currently making his eyeballs feel like they’ve been drowned in acid, means that he'll have cope with his last resort.

Glasses. 

It's not that they're uncomfortable or annoying or even slightly unbearable, he just feels completely repulsive in them. He remembers being a teenager and the optician delivering the bad news - diagnosing him with short-sightedness and condemning him to wear glasses for the rest of his life. He went through hundreds of pairs of glasses that day, none of them adequate enough. He settled for a pair in which he convinced himself that he looked 'ok' in and yet still found himself dreading going to school with them on.

His fears were reinforced on Monday morning when he was met by a cascade of taunts and jeers from his group of friends. Sure, they were all jovial in nature, and his friends didn't mean any harm with the insults he received for the next few years, but they always seemed to provoke Gareth, imbuing a sense of self-consciousness and doubt. He'd carry these feelings with him for the rest of his life and still, as a rule, he would not wear glasses.

But that was a long time ago, right? He'd gotten new pairs since then. As a commodity, more than anything, though. As he looked at himself in the square, black-rimmed glasses, his heart sunk. He felt as if they'd aged him years and highlighted all the deep lines on his forehead. Reluctantly turning away from the mirror, he gritted his teeth and he headed out for training, ready for the barrage of taunts that would come - time cruelly repeating itself before his eyes.

*

Harry temporarily looses the ability to breathe when he sees his manager. Because yes, it's Gareth, in the same matching sweatpants and jacket as normal, and then again it's not. It's not because Gareth has adopted these wonderful glasses, that rest perfectly on his nose, frame his face and put emphasis on his godly complexion. Harry has to pinch himself _\- why has he never noticed how utterly gorgeous this man looks before?_

Then again, maybe it's not his glasses. Maybe it's the expression on his face. It isn't the usual stern, parental look he's giving the team, one that normally insinuates his love for his boys, but also the fact he won't take their crap. Now, however, Harry catches a brief glimpse of uneasiness, apprehensiveness and - _was that fright?_ Surely not, Harry had never seen Gareth like this before.

It's Lingard who breaks the silence with a chuckle of, "Can I try 'em on Boss? Pass 'em around, I reckon Rashford would get all the girls with a pair of those."

Rashford shoots back defensively, "You saying I don't attract them already? I'm having better luck in that department than you are."

"Boys," Gareth says, a sternness to his voice, "we all know what glasses are. If anyone either asks to try them on, holds up fingers to make me count them or make any reference to Harry Potter I swear to God I will make this the worst training session of your lives." 

The boys go silent after that, except from Dier, who whispers in Harry's ear, "I wonder if this is gonna be a permanent thing 'cause I gotta say, the boss looks better without them."

Harry finds himself getting surprisingly defensive, "Yeah, well you'd look a lot better to him right now if he wasn't wearing them."

It takes Dier a few seconds to understand that Kane's insulting him, but when he does he simply laughs it off and jogs to join the other players.

He wonders if he was too harsh and finally decides that it's not his fault that Eric can't see that their manager is looking practically delectable today. Surely even a fool could see how much the simple glasses had completely transformed him, encapsulating his maturity and grandeur and- _oh my god he's completely in love with this man, how has he been so blind?_ The glasses themselves aren't incredible or anything, they're plain - Harry’s seen hundreds of people with the same pair on - but the way they rest crookedly on his nose make Harry feel like he's on fire. It also makes their training session feel hours longer than it actually is. _How is he supposed to focus on anything except his manager's gorgeous appearance?_

The tension reaches it's head when Harry's taking a shot, and should be concentrating but finds he simply has to take a tiny glimpse at Gareth. A mistake, of course. He realizes this too late and completely misses the ball, instead falling on his back embarrassingly. It's even worse when Gareth sticks out a hand to help him up, Harry can feel himself going bright red in shame. Then there's a warm arm around his shoulder, and Gareth's face is suddenly way too close to his _\- we've been closer, Kane begrudgingly thinks, why is this time any different?_ Still, Harry can feel himself burning up again, unable to breathe as Gareth mumbles a quick, "you ok?"

Harry can't even nod he's that distracted by the smell of Gareth - strong cologne mixed in with a bit of whisky. Harry thinks it's heavenly. It's all over too soon: before he can register what's happening, Gareth has already pulled away and shouted another command that Harry's mind is currently blocking out. His mind is focused on more err- pressing matters. Of course, 'pressing matters' involve too many fantasies that include M&S waistcoats and glasses.

He's in the middle of a particularly deep fantasy, imagining undressing Gareth layer by layer, and how his bare skin would feel under his fingers. Harry knows he must hiding a football-toned body underneath those perfect suits, and he finds himself longing to touch it - to touch him. He's getting to the good part, where he's grinding himself against Gareth's erection and running his hands up and down his thighs, when he's brought back to reality by the man who he's just been imaging doing such crude things to motioning for them to go inside. Almost reluctantly, follows his teammates and discards the fantasy - for now. 

*

He's not really surprised when his subconscious takes him to Gareth's office. He's always in there for hours after training, mumbling an excuse about piles of paperwork when anybody asks. He weighs up his options, unsure whether he should go in or not. Then he realizes. This: this conversation could happen anywhere and eventually, it will have to. That's the whole point.

He doesn't even wait for an answer when he finally knocks, choosing to just stride in instead. It's the best decision he's ever made because for just for a second, a tiny second, he sees Gareth. Posed gracefully, hand resting on his chin and eyebrows furrowed as he stares too harshly at the stack of paper in front of him. _He works too hard_ , Harry thinks sadly. It's not any of this that makes his hands clammy, or breath hitch, though, it's those damn glasses. And it pains Harry even further when Gareth, like lightning, takes them off as soon as he notices he's got company.

Because in that moment, it hits Harry. _He's scared_. A wave of frustration washes over him, _why didn't he realize this earlier?_ All the signs were there. He could see now, that what he was so eager to dismiss as some odd timidness was actually nerves. Nerves about his appearance. In that tiny, tiny moment, he finally sees past the formal façade that Gareth so easily adopts - he sees a self-conscious teenager, worried about the popular kids picking on him for wearing glasses. And it kills him. How can one man be so ignorant to his own beauty? It's this thought, the demanding thought that Gareth doesn't know how utterly irresistible those glasses make him look, that causes him to blurt out:

"Don't take them off!"

Taking in Gareth's half-shocked, half-confused look, he stumbles through his words, figuring that there's no going back,

"You look really attrac- _err_ \- good? with them on... and yeah, I like them, they make your eyes stand out," he shakes his head slightly, trying to find the right words, "What I'm trying to say is that they really suit you. You should put them back on. Umm... please?"

Gareth looks totally dumbfounded, paralysed by Harry’s words. Sitting there, motionless, he clutches his glasses, holding them mid air, unsure of what to do. Harry takes matters into his own hands because he decides just has to. He strolls over to Gareth, trying to hide the torrent of nerves he’s currently experiencing.

Hoping Gareth can’t see how much his hand is shaking, he moves around the desk and takes the glasses out of his hands. And _God, he hopes he’s reading this right_  because then he just slips himself into Gareth’s lap, facing him so that their noses are nearly touching. 

Slipping the glasses on easily enough, his fingers move to rest themselves in Gareth’s beard. If he wasn’t so frightened of being rebuffed, he’d find this funny. How Gareth has suddenly become very, very tiny and meek. 

He feels like he’s going to fall off, so squirms around to try and find a comfortable position, so he can give Gareth an embarrassingly long speech about how much he loves his glasses, and more importantly how much he loves _him_. He’s moving his hips rather violently and then - oh, _oh,_ he can feel a hardness under him and looks up at Gareth’s anxiety-ridden face. 

Gareth opens his mouth like he’s about to say something, to protest, to say _they really shouldn’t be doing this here,_ to ruin this wonderful little bubble they’ve created. So, Harry shushes him, deciding to plant a questioning kiss on the corner of his mouth.  Before Harry can lean backwards and break contact, Gareth moves his head to the side, so his lips are fully on the other man's. There's a second of soft kissing until Harry grows more demanding, his lips sucking on Gareth's. In response, Gareth slipped his tongue out, lapping at the sweetness on Harry's lips before being allowed in. It was delicious, heavenly and it made both of their brains fuzzy with desperation.

Harry’s genuinely worried that his brain might actually explode from all this new information.

“Oh God,” Gareth whispered, astounded at all the possibilities that lay before him. 

Harry leaned back just a little, to let the two breathe. 

“S’alright?” 

“The understatement of the century,” Gareth grinned, and pulled Harry back in for another kiss, using the shock to his advantage, sticking his tongue in the other man’s mouth. Harry’s hands cupped his cheeks, then moved so that his fingertips were lacing with each other across Gareth’s neck. Harry angled his hand to deepen the kiss, realising that ‘alright’ was an unfairly depressing term for the borderline magic was currently happening to his mouth. 

Gareth tries to regain his breath as Harry breaks the kiss to begin planting a trail of hot, wet kisses down Gareth's jaw, opening the first few buttons on his shirt to pepper more kisses around his collar. He continued to kiss lower down Gareth's body before moving one hand to remove various articles of clothing. The waistcoat was the first to go, then both their shirts and Gareth's belt. Harry's other hand was busy palming at the other man's crotch, making him elicit small moans that went straight to Harry's groin.

Gareth was about to whisper a string of endearments to Harry, to tell him how much he wanted this, how it was better than anything he could have ever fantasied about, how good he was doing... but then Harry had managed to undo Gareth's pants completely, his mouth sliding hot and confident around his cock. Gareth lost the ability speak, forced instead to make loud, embarrassing groans that he was sure could be heard down the whole corridor. Harry sucked, and _Jesus Christ_ , his tongue, the way it moved, made Gareth ache and shiver in pleasure. And then his hands were in Harry's soft hair, murmuring words of encouragement, sensation overcoming him as his head slumped back lazily against the chair. His hands automatically dug harshly into Harry's hair as he felt himself teeter on the precipice of an orgasm. Gareth's hips jerked against the chair violently as he came into Harry's mouth.

After finishing, Gareth pulls Harry back onto his lap, so that Harry's straddling him in his chair, both covered all over in a stifling, thin layer of sweat. They stay like that, a sultry, sticky mess, Harry's face in the nook of Gareth's neck, for what seemed like hours. Until Gareth kissed the tip of Harry's ear, whispering, "I guess I'll just have to wear my glasses more often then."

"Yes, Boss," was the sleepy, slightly dazed reply. Gareth couldn't help but chuckle at the sheer perfectness of it all, and allowed himself too, to close his eyes and let sleep take him. For once, he wasn't thinking about the crooks in his neck and the aching pains he'd receive later for falling asleep in his office chair. No, his mind was occupied by one thing - _his boy,_ who was grunting sleepily in the unintelligible language of those well and truly dead to the world.

**Author's Note:**

> follow me!  
> tumblr: mandelsons


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